


Where Everything is Good

by Kitty (Katatafish)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Use, Friendship, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by film, M/M, Major Illness, Multi, Oral Sex, Sex, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-16 11:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: Lost and lonely while studying in Paris, Antonio soon finds himself getting involved with a local group of activists and advocates for the rights of people living with AIDS. There, he meets a passionate Frenchman and his strange friends, and forms deep bonds with them as he helps them spread their message.Inspired by the movie 120BPM/ Art by @thedisappointedidealist12 on tumblr





	1. one

_Even now- classroom after conference hall, lecture theatre after auditorium- Arthur still gets nervous. The wooden floor of the raised stage creaks under his lead-heavy feet. He can’t stay still, switching from foot to foot with every passing second. His hands clench and tighten, clawed and ragged fingernails carving red crescents in to cracked palms. Under the heat of a dozen lights, even from behind the thick indigo curtain that separates him from an unaware audience, his forehead glistens, deathly pale with a sickly grey tint. Blown wide and dark, his pupils dart from left to right and back again, struggling to focus from head of messy hair to shoulders rubbing against shoulders. The sound of his lungs heaving and heart pounding against the thin muscle of his chest floods the space, swimming among hundreds of other similarly baited breaths._

 

_They’d had significantly less trouble getting in to the building than they had previously anticipated. Of course, they were far from the only group of students milling around outside the event hall prior to the introduction of the evening’s speakers, a team of representatives from the French Agency for the Fight against AIDS- or as they have become known to Arthur and his peers, ‘Lavettes’. However, they’ve done rather well to create both a name and a reputation for themselves in the past few months, and there’s only so much of the bright pink triangle plastered across their shirts that can be covered by bleach stained denim jackets._

 

_Still, their little gathering waits for the courtyard to clear, and for the sun to bury itself just a little further down beneath the clouds, before sliding in through the stage door around the back of the building, only moments before someone deems it fit to be pulled tight and locked. They crowd in to the first empty room they find, knocking against each other, all skittish with anticipation. Arthur stands by the door, watching the corridor clear person by person, hushing the congregation intermittently._

_They wait obediently for him to call it clear, and move to bombard the conference. The walls rattle under the weight of vibrations from amplifiers, sharing greetings and introductions, and notes from a previous summit. It’s not a long walk from the dressing room to the wings of the stage, Arthur knows from sweet experience, but herding a flock of well-meaning students, carrying placards the size of their torsos, down a narrow corridor without drawing the attention of some jobs-worth security guard is an entirely new territory._

 

_Someone different is speaking now. Arthur knows his name, his face, his voice, all far too familiarly. He’s heard these words before, plenty of times, and read them in blocks of monotonous black and white, parading themselves as something akin to intellectual. He doesn’t pretend to know exactly what they mean, but the intent- and downright malignance behind them- has been made explicitly clear to him on more than one occasion._

_His jacket feels tight and constricting around his trembling shoulders. A whistle hangs like an iron weight around his neck, the string rubbing the skin under his hairline red raw. The ball rattles with every jolted step in place that he takes, swinging with the same frequency that he swings his restless arms in the little space he’s been afforded._

_A polite yet hesitant round of applause circles through the room, and Arthur watches as the speaker is replaced with another just as clean cut, with a well-fitting suit jacket and meticulously shined shoes. His voice drones on once more about diversity and equality with a similarly sinister enthusiastic tone, eyes bright and cheeks stretched wide in to a menacing smile. His hands don’t shake as he gestures along with delicately chosen words, pointing at indistinguishable graphs and charts posted on the board behind him. This is the man they’ve come to see._

 

_They were meant to give him a cue. They haven’t. And once again, it has been left entirely up to Arthur to make sure the evening runs smoothly._

_“Fuck it- let’s go,” he mutters, bringing the whistle to rest between chapped lips._

 

* * *

 

Antonio is still struggling to grasp the concept that it rains far more often in Paris than it ever did in Madrid. And it would just so happen- with his luck, of course- that this fact would manifest itself in the form of him huddled underneath the doorway to the student union building; water dripping from dark, sodden curls to lay trails down his cheeks; and wearing a shirt so soaked that it has almost become see-through. He shivers, despite the ‘generous’ temperature of the evening. Generous for Paris anyway, in his severely limited experience. As such, he had earlier chosen to forego carrying around a spring jacket or light umbrella, much to his own detriment.

It’s already dark, despite the relatively early hour but the streets along the seine and surrounding the university campus still bustle with people, all with their hands in their pockets and their heads hung low. Every café and restaurant is filled with tourists and locals alike, pressed up against windows, foggy with condensation from the heat of their lively breathing and the steam rising from hot coffees.

But there are only two lights on in this building. One, in the entry lobby, paints his stone stoop with stripes of yellow that poke through the slivers of frosted glass. The other illuminates a larger window a few metres away from where he stands, on the ground floor, wrapping itself around the crumpled blind that has been pulled down to obscure the view to the inside.

Every so often, the doorway will be flooded by the lobby’s yellow light as the door creaks open, and small groups of chatting students wrapped up in brightly coloured sports jackets and clashing scarves make their way inside the building, after stubbing out their cigarette butts on the same darkened patch that has dug its way down in to the wooden frame of the entryway.

 

He’s meant to be meeting someone- someone else, not one of the figures that walk straight past him without even the slightest glance. It’s been over an hour, if his watch is running correctly today, and he’s not entirely sure why he’s still waiting, sat across the green from the designated rendezvous point organised by the woman he’s spent every Monday morning lecture next to for the past seven months. He doesn’t know her name. He doesn’t know their name. He doesn’t seem to know a lot, these days.

 

“Are you here for the meeting?”

 

He looks to his right. A woman with auburn hair stands halfway across the threshold, holding the door open with her shoulders and angling her neck around to watch him. Her eyebrows raise, as Antonio realises that he has yet to answer. Something, some _higher influence_ , tells him to nod. A bright smile spreads across her flushed face, and her eyes lighten. She holds out her hand to Antonio, who gladly takes in its warmth and allows himself to be led inside the building. The door slams loud behind them.

He’s dragged down a corridor, dimly lit by the excess light coursing in from the foyer, past several identical, closed doors, until the pair reach one that is held wide open by a doorstop. He can hear a group of people has begun to congregate in there- this must be what is pulling people from the streets, as no other section of the building appears to be occupied in any way. Their footsteps echo against scuffed hardwood flooring, his flat and heavy with the hardy rubber sole of his shoes, hers sharp with the click of her heels in perfect time with each other.

The first thing he notices about the room, is the overwhelming scent of stale menthol and industrial carpet cleaner. The carpet feels rough and scratchy under his feet, and appears to be the hideous yet typical, cheap, flint grey colour so commonly found in classrooms not just in Spain and France, underneath the harsh white light that bathes the room. There’s a chalkboard on one wall, stained with white dust and the remnants of words someone hasn’t bothered to wipe away completely. Opposite it, there are chairs and tables rising up at regular increments, most of them empty, though the row at the very back is far more densely populated. There are three seats, front and centre, that are also occupied, almost forming a perfect quadrant of curious faces and nervous hands.

The woman wraps a friendly hand around his elbow, and guides him towards the fourth seat, thrusting a sparse sheet of paper and pen towards him before he has even truly sat down.

 

**ACT UP PARIS – AIDS COALITION TO UNLEASH POWER**

**NAME**

**AGE**

**GENDER**

**ORIENTATION**

**HIV STATUS**

**OTHER**

 

“Since you’re new here, I’ll ask you to fill in this form, just so we can keep track of demographics. All of the questions are optional, you don’t have to answer any of them if you don’t want, but obviously some of them- like your name- can be pretty useful to know,”

Antonio stares down at the sheet, letting her words wash completely over his head. Her accent is unfamiliar, and stumbles almost clumsily over the flow of French. He can hear the scratch of pencils working fervently around him.

“I’m Elizabeta, by the way. And this is Gilbert, our spokesperson,” she smiles, gesturing towards the man stood beside her, with pale hair and even paler skin. Antonio looks up for a second to meet his gaze, and shake his extended hand.

“Antonio,” he introduces himself politely.

“It’s good to have you here. Though personally, I prefer the term _leader_ ,” Gilbert smirks.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a certified idiot,” Elizabeta rolls her eyes, her voice just about bordering between amusement and resentment.

“I’ll leave you to fill this in. We’ll be starting soon,”

 

 

They’re not the sort of questions he’d been expecting when he’d followed a beautiful, lively woman through a corridor in a student building. They’re not the sort of questions he had been expecting at all this evening, date or no date, meeting or no meeting. He answers them anyway, and attaches his contact information to the section at the bottom.

 

**ACT UP PARIS – AIDS COALITION TO UNLEASH POWER**

**NAME-** Antonio Fernández Carriedo

 **AGE-** 22

 **GENDER-** Male

 **ORIENTATION-** N/A

 **HIV STATUS-** Negative

 **OTHER-** N/A

 

“Alright, everyone, it’s getting late so we’ll get on with it,” Elizabeta’s voice rings out across the room. Antonio glances up from the desk to find that the room has filled out significantly since his arrival. Almost every seat has at least one occupant- some two.

“We have a few new arrivals today, so for their sake I’m going to have to go through the information spiel and house rules again- _don’t complain,_ you were all new once too,"

 

“You may already know, we’re ACT UP. As a group, we were founded in 1989, inspired by the ACT UP group in New York. We initially started as a queer-led initiative with the intention of defending the rights of people with AIDS. We don’t provide patient support, we’re purely an activist group. I presume that, since you’re here tonight, you’ve seen examples of our action in the media or the press. Those actions, of course, are decided here during our weekly meetings. Same time, same place, every week.

“Now, we have a couple rules for speaking, they’re there to preserve the integrity of the group, and they must be followed- no questions asked. We always have two people moderating debates. You can speak on any topic here, but you need to put your hand up and wait your turn. If you speak for too long, the moderators will have to stop you, so try and keep things concise. Also, to prevent any interruptions, we don’t applaud a point- if we agree with the speaker, we click our fingers, so the debate can continue smoothly.

“ _Don’t worry,_ I’m almost done. Please don’t smoke in here out of respect for those of us who may be immuno-compromised or otherwise. You can smoke in the corridor, but please don’t debate there- we’d like to keep discussion in this room so that everyone has the chance to be involved.

“And finally, to join, you need to understand this: As soon as you join ACT UP, whatever your HIV status, whether you’ve decided to disclose that with us or not, you _must_ accept the fact that you will be viewed by the media and the public, including any friends or family that may see, as HIV positive. Simple.

“I think that’s everything- if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask either Gilbert or I at the end of the meeting. And most importantly, have fun,”

 

“Are you quite finished?” Gilbert scoffs from one of the front corners of the room. Elizabeta shoots him a sour look, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl.

“Good- we’ll get started then. We’ve a pretty full agenda today, so it’d be nice if you all kept quiet unless it’s absolutely necessary that you speak. I reckon we should start with the AFLS debrief, if you don’t mind- Arthur?”

There’s a shuffle of movement towards the back of the room. Antonio turns around in the chair to watch a man with untidy blonde hair, stick thin limbs covered with an oversized green bomber jacket and an angry face stand from his table. Gilbert continues to speak as Arthur makes his way down the steps, to stand in front of the chalkboard.

“In case you didn’t know, the AFLS is a French anti-AIDS agency. Arthur, go ahead-“

 

“Okay, right. I’ll try to be objective, just this once, but it might be difficult because I’m pretty fucking annoyed by how it all went down,”

He turns to stare at the group of people loitering in the corridor and the doorframe, with an indignant glare that could quite easily rival Elizabeta’s.

“It’d be nice if everyone who took part in the demonstration could also come and take part in this discussion, since you were all so enthusiastic the other night,”

Arthurs voice, stern and undeniably English as it is seems far more comfortable with the loose vowels and tight-lipped consonants of French than Elizabeta and Gilbert had been.

With annoyed groans, the group stub out their cigarettes and trudge in to the room.

“Well, it all began as planned. We had no problem getting in to the conference hall, we listened to the speech for a bit- it was shit, as we had expected,”

 

* * *

 

_Arthur blows in to the whistle, singlehandedly starting a cacophony of other similarly shrill whistle screeches, accompanied by the blare of several air horns, and the confused murmurs of the people sat watching the event unfold. He storms on to the stage with confident steps, quickly flanked by others holding signs up high above their heads, all printed in stark black and white with statements condemning the actions of the AFLS. Shocked, the speaker stumbles back from the lectern, leaving the microphone stand ripe and open for Arthur to take advantage of._

_“We are ACT UP Paris. The AFLS was founded over three years ago, yet there still has not been a decent and informative prevention campaign. France has twice as many cases as the United Kingdom or Germany. You’re failing, terribly. There’s nothing for gays, for druggies, for women or foreigners-“_

_His voice is raspy and scratched with fervent anger and passion, but the suited man still manages to speak over him._

_“We’ve done campaigns for homosexuals,” he says, smugly._

_“Yes, and the Prime Minister’s office censored the campaign. It was only shown in publications that no one reads. How is that going to help anything, prevent anyone else getting sick?”_

_“You can’t say things like that,” the speaker interrupts again before suddenly falling silent._

_Arthur feels something fly past his ear, and watches as an expanse of thick claret explodes over the man’s chest, instantly staining his white shirt a horrific shade of red. The substance coats one side of his face, and drips down to follow the lines of his lips and chin, creating an almost vampiric image. Arthur would think it oddly appropriate, if his thoughts weren’t frozen with the unexpected turn of events. The crowd falls silent just for a second, before exploding once again in a shocked chorus._

 

* * *

“I get it- I fucked up. _I’m sorry,_ ” a hesitant voice calls out from the left side of the room.

“Emil?” Elizabeta questions.

The boy- because he _is_ a boy, much to Antonio’s shock- stands with a sheepish posture.

“It was my fault, I couldn’t see from the back. I couldn’t hear either, so I panicked. I’m human. I heard someone say, _‘It’s you next’_ , so when I had a window I felt that I had to just go for it- otherwise we might have missed the opportunity,”

 

“We have made mistakes before, Arthur,” Gilbert sighs, leaning one hand against a desk, and resting the other on his hip “So what if he threw the blood too soon, it isn’t that big of a deal,”

“Fine, no big deal, I just looked like an idiot up there, speaking on my own. No worries,” Arthur scorns.

“ _Anyway_ , the real problem came after,”

 

* * *

 

_Within seconds, the hall explodes in to chaos. Neither Arthur nor the representative have dared to move from their positions, but everyone else seems to bustle around them. Two figures, one tall and wheat-blonde with golden skin, the other lithe and pale, leap forward and pull the man towards them with rough, sudden motions. His arms are twisted behind his back, and Arthur hears the click of a metal handcuff around the man’s wrist, before watching him be dragged down to the ground against a stage support pole, and seeing the other cuff be fastened to it. Someone begins to chant. Someone else joins. Arthur can’t tell what they’re saying. A red hand print stains the display of charts, and is projected up on to the wall._

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know which genius came up with the idea to do that-“

“You know _exactly_ who it was,” a new voice cries out from the back of the room.

“Let him finish, please,”

“Whatever- I think it’s counter-productive. All it did was make other groups mad, instead of making them react for once. We’ve never handcuffed anyone before, you all know that the cuffs should be used on ourselves if the cops ever show up,”

 

“Can we speak now?”

“Go ahead, Alfred,” Gilbert directs the debate away from an irate Arthur.

 

“Thank you. Sure, we improvised, but we could tell from the start that the entire thing was screwed. It was a mess, everyone there was thinking ‘Oh, ACT UP’s at it again, but they’ll shut up soon’. Emil’s fuck-up was a major turning point for us. It let them know that we’re serious. They’ve never had as strong of a reaction to something as they did then. We had to seize the opportunity, so we did the first thing we could think of. And I think that we were right. It wasn’t premeditated,”

 

“Matthias?”

“No one is saying it was premeditated, Alfred. But Arthur’s right, it was really violent,”

Arthur snaps his fingers so hard, that it looks like they’re about to break against his palm.

“Throwing blood is already a lot, but we’ve never handcuffed anyone- it’s mad. It felt like even I was being taken hostage,”

 

Antonio watches someone else raise their hand.

 

“Francis, go ahead,”

The man, Francis, pushes himself up from the table in a swift motion, flicking long blonde hair back over his shoulder, and leaning forward on to the table with delicate fingers.

 

“Why are we debating this?” he begins, his voice smooth and calm, yet somehow still filled with rage. He gestures wildly with one hand as he talks.

“The action didn’t fail. I apologise, but it was actually a big success. Arthur- there was _no_ physical violence,”

“No, just a _tiny_ bit of restraint-“

“Hardly- the guy offered no resistance. And what is the AFLS? An agency founded by the government to shift blame and responsibility. And since then, there has been nothing. We finally got to show exactly how useless they are”

 

The sound of clicking overtakes the room, and Francis’ gestures become even more frenzied as he continues to speak.

 

“In meetings, you say _‘we agree, but we can’t shock the public, it’d be counterproductive’_. And now we have over 6000 new cases a year,”

“ _Francis_ ,”

“The AFLS campaigns are so abstract, that you forget HIV is sexually transmitted. Nothing on gays, junkies or whores. There’s nothing on those hit hardest by the epidemic!”

“Francis!” Elizabeta shouts, her voice ringing between the walls.

 

“ _I’m nearly finished_ \- who cares if the AFLS were humiliated? We’ll keep pissing the state off until there is a real prevention policy.”

Francis falls back in to his seat with an exhausted sigh, and Elizabeta looks relieved that the argument seems to have ceased.

“Alright, can we move on now,” she pleads.

“Wait, this is important, Liz,” Arthur argues.

 

“I understand your panic, but the world isn’t about to end. Roderich, have any other groups reacted?” Gilbert steps in once again in an attempt to cool the situation, and turns to involve the quiet brunette man sat in the front corner, behind a large stack of papers.

“There’s something interesting in the AIDES communique- _‘AIDES condemns the actions of ACT UP in attacking the chairman of the AFLS, et cetera,_ ” he flicks through the rest of the paper,

“ _We condemn ACT UP’s brutal and childish methods, despite understanding its impatience with the AFLS’ inertia’_. Liberation’s headline tomorrow: _Historical and Hysterical break in the fight against AIDS. ‘ACT UP’s actions highlight the authorities’ disregard for French homosexuals,_ ”

Another round of snapping.

“Well, let’s move on, we won’t be done by midnight at this rate,” Gilbert huffs.

 

“ _Anyway_ \- speaking of prevention,” Elizabeta begins, “we’ve just printed our new posters. A close up on a bit of anal sex, very tasteful. Post it in the Marais, along the river, in your parents’ homes and your churches. We also have some for our dyke sisters and junkie friends too, _Arthur,_ ” she smirks, sticking up three explicit posters that have Antonio sliding back down in to his chair with reddened cheeks.

Arthur doesn’t grace Elizabeta with a reply to her taunt, instead storming back up the stairs to confront Francis, the typical scowl on his face. Antonio can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can’t imagine it’s particularly friendly. Nobody else seems to notice.

 

“We’ll be setting up commission meetings for all the sub-groups, they’ll be posted to the schedule. We’d like you all to pick an area to focus in, be it prostitutes, junkies- I think the prison commission is running low on members. Anything else, Mattie?”

Another figure moves to stand at the front of the room, ready to address everyone else.

 

“A few weeks ago we voted for action against the Melton Pharm lab, which still refuses to release the toxicity results of its protease inhibitor. A protease inhibitor is an antivirus molecule, about which we unfortunately don’t know much. They’re holding the information back,”

“ _It would seem_ ,” Gilbert continues, “that Melton Pharm are waiting for their next conference to announce it, but the next conference isn’t until next year- in Berlin. They don’t give a _shit_ about us.”

“The idea is to get the results from the lab ourselves, and see what they tell us.”

 

“Put your hands up to give us an idea of who can take part,”

 

Francis, Alfred, Matthias, Arthur and Mathieu all raise their hands. Antonio raises his hand.

“Even the new guys want to join in,” Elizabeta smiles.

“There should be more of us,” Gilbert raises his hand.

“Even our chairperson will be there! That makes about fifteen of us,”

 

“We’ll use a phone tree the day before- you call three friends, they call three friends, and so on,” Arthur explains.

 

“How do we get in?”

“What?”

“How do we get in?”

“The door, Berwald- _Christ_ , it’s not difficult,” Arthur shrugs.

“I’ve been to that lab before- there’s a security lock, and two revolving doors,”

 

“Revolving doors won’t hurt you, I promise. But you should all bring your identification just in case we get arrested, as well as water and meds, should you need them- they might keep us in custody for a while,”

“Will we be throwing blood again? Because I haven’t been able to shower in a week, my bath is still full of the stuff,”

 

The meeting soon calms rapidly, but Antonio clings to every word, every movement, with a curious vigour he can’t recall ever having experienced in his entire life. He watches Gilbert and Elizabeta parade themselves across the front of the room with big smiles and spritely steps, catches Francis and Arthur shooting each other the occasional ill-natured expression, while watching them slowly migrate to sit closer to each other. He sees brotherly exchanges between Alfred and Mathieu, and Mathias persistently trying to talk to the man sat beside Emil.

When the hall eventually begins to clear, he almost can’t bring himself to leave. The atmosphere of the room, all hate and anger and hope like some sort of odd Pandora’s Box, envelops him in a way he’s never felt before. He wants to bury his fingers in it, and keep it wrapped tightly around himself.

But Elizabeta wants to lock up more, and so she quickly hurries him out of the building, and back out on to the dark courtyard with a friendly smile.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Could be a statement- could be just some blood throwing. I mean, as soon as you throw blood you're saying something, really."

The main offices of Melton Pharmaceuticals stand in a rather unassuming business park, exactly nine miles away from the fountains outside the Paris-Sorbonne building. It’s a tall structure, clad in a fresh clean white that gleams under the sunlight, in a way that makes it stand out among the other, more modest constructions. The walls are lined with blacked out windows, which reflect the artificial green of the surrounding area, then the sweet blue of the sky as they rise up. There’s no sign to indicate exactly where they are, but given the authoritative confidence in the footsteps of those around him, he imagines that the whereabouts of the office is a knowledge only gained by prior experience. Antonio hangs back, ever so slightly, and gazes up at the building with a lax jaw, squinted eyes and a hesitant step.

“Are you nervous?”

Elizabeta skips back from the group to meet him further down the pathway.

“You look nervous,” she chuckles, fighting the wind to tuck her hair behind her ears.

Antonio shrugs with an unintentionally sheepish smile.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” she continues, “I always used to get nervous when we did stuff like this, still do sometimes. Although Arthur thinks we shouldn’t have too much trouble with them this time. Melton Pharm have always been one of our biggest targets, and we’ve done this kind of thing before. Caused a pretty big media storm last time we were here, and they’re going to be just as desperate to avoid a repeat of that as we are. Good public relations, and all that,”

If he’s realised anything in the week and a half he’s spent in the company of the members of ACT UP, it’s that Elizabeta doesn’t really stop talking. Though that week and a half seemed to have consisted only of passing glances of faint recognition in hallways, polite conversation over similar textbooks in the library, and the one time Elizabeta invited him to some hole-in-the-wall café to get to know each other over milky coffee.

She goes through moods from minute to minute, but Antonio is convinced that he can still hear her voice even when they’re on opposite sides of the city centre. He’s found himself, on more than one occasion, being even more exhausted in the moments she takes for breath having tried keeping up with her rambling, than she seems to be short of breath.

“But if I’m being completely honest, I’ve stopped listening to Arthur. It’s getting harder to tell what he means and what he doesn’t some days, and some of the crap I’ve heard him come out with recently, well. It’s probably for the best,”

His skills when it comes to _‘nodding along and appearing to both understand and care’_ must be second to none by now.

“So really, who knows how today will go? Shit, that’s probably a terrible thing to say- it’ll only make you more nervous. I’m sure it’ll all be fine,”

She’s not wrong- his heartrate does seem to speed up, and his fingers do tremble that little bit more, though whether it’s as a direct result of nerves or just a subconscious reaction to the implication is disconcertingly unclear. Not making it any better, is the way in which Elizabeta sounds as though she is trying to reassure herself that everything will go okay. Then, almost as soon as she had arrived, Elizabeta zips back to the head of the gathering, grabs one of Gilbert’s elbows, and throws her head back in laughter.

Gilbert laughs too, in the way he often does- a booming noise that will no doubt alert the office to their impending arrival, as he adjusts the strap of the camera around his neck. Whatever they were talking about, it was clearly funny enough to make Francis smirk and relax his shoulders, though Arthur’s face doesn’t twist from his usual exasperated frown. For a moment, Antonio wonders if they’re talking about him. Francis turns his head to glance at him for a fleeting second, but since nobody else does, he dismisses the idea- for the protection of his sanity, if nothing else.

 

Arthur wasn’t wrong about the doors. They do, in fact, revolve, and they have little trouble getting through them. Though on Elizabeta’s advice, it doesn’t make Antonio trust the Englishman any more than he already didn’t.

The reception, much like the outside of the building, is immaculate white. There’s no scuff of dirt on the tiled floor, or greasy fingerprint on any of the glass surfaces. There’s a collection of pale blue seats along the window to their right, and several security scanners to their left, exactly as Berwald had warned them of. As they file in to the lobby, keeping their voices but not their footsteps quiet, Antonio can see every muscle in the two guards’ bodies stiffen with anticipation, their backs straightening and their sallow-skinned fists preparing for a conflict. The lone receptionist rises to her feet behind the desk, her eyebrows raised halfway to her hairline, as she folds her arms in what he presumes is an attempt to seem more imposing.

Elizabeta walks right up to her, Alfred following diligently behind, and scatters several stark black and white flyers across the desk.

 

_MELTON PHARM – ASSASSIN_

_SILENCE = DEATH_

 

“Excuse us, madam- we’ll only be a few minutes. We’re from ACT UP Paris, a non-violent, non-profit organisation of people with AIDS and HIV, we need to speak to the people of Melton Pharm,”

The receptionist begins to protest, as the security guards make their way over.

“I’m sorry, you can’t just come in here like that-“ her voice shakes.

“We’ll be five minutes, at most- there’s really no need for this,” Alfred retorts, as the guards, black blemishes against the sparkling background, wrap their arms around the pair and begin to wrench them away from the desk, cutting off the protests from both parties in a swift breath.

Everything stills- then Antonio sees a head of silken blonde hair make a mad dash in the direction of the security gate, and the room breaks in to chaos.

No fewer than ten of the many follow in the same direction, leaping over the gates with an adrenaline fuelled grace and making their way towards a set of elevator doors. The guard holding Elizabeta pushes her away, and runs on encumbered feet to stop the escapees. The second almost does the same, before both Alfred and Liz slide back to the desk, sacrificing themselves as a distraction. Aggravated shouts flood the room. Every few seconds, the shutter of Gilbert’s camera will click, and every other few, Antonio will hear it bounce against the man’s chest as he runs. Then he hears the fuzz of a radio-

“Can someone call the police please, we need them now,” the receptionist spits in to the device, looking around helplessly, making a conscious effort to avoid gazing at the way the printed papers scattered before her glare solemnly.

“Well that’s just _unnecessary_ ,” Alfred sighs, fighting against the solid wall of the guard’s forearms.

Antonio follows the masses, and vaults over the gate while everyone else seems distracted.

 

The shining doors of the elevator slide open just as he reaches them, and a small crowd files in, taking up most of the space.

“Sorry- HIV positive only,” Francis shrugs, still with the smirk, as Antonio attempts to squeeze in alongside them. The Spaniard doesn’t think before moving on towards the staircase, where the majority of the group had disappeared up.

“Hold on- I was joking!” Francis calls after him, a look of genuine regret crossing his face.

“Well done, idiot. You scared him off,” Arthur huffs with an amused voice.

“Which floor are we going to?” Mathieu asks.

“Tenth,”

They press further together as the doors close. Gilbert gestures towards the bag hanging over Emil’s shoulder.

“Here, give me one of those balloons,”

“Not yet, you’ll get it everywhere,”

“Mattie- what are we doing here, again?”

“Jesus, did you not pay attention to a single word we said,” Arthur growls.

“Are you rattling by any chance, eyebrows?” Matthias eyes glint, proud of himself. Francis huffs, amused.

“This may come as a surprise to you, but I do actually have a personality,”

“If that’s what you call it,”

 

“They’ve been testing a new protease inhibitor, it’s supposed to be like AZT without the side effects,” Mathieu interrupts.

“But they haven’t released any information on the progression of the tests or their results. We’re asked them plenty of times, but they keep refusing to tell us. Either the tests failed, and they’re ashamed that they couldn’t get it right, or they were successful and there’s a reason they’re not telling us. For money or glory, most likely. Either way, lots of people have their hopes pinned on this, so it’s important we get some information. If they are holding the drug back, they could be responsible for countless cases of infection, even deaths,” he explains.

“You’re much better at explaining that than Gilbert, I don’t know who let him be in charge of all the media stuff,”

“ _Hey-_ “

“So you want us to steal the test results?” Matthias attempts to confirm.

“Well the intention is just to make some noise, let them know they can’t get away with ignoring us for any longer, so hopefully they’ll organise a conference or something. But if you can find the test results, I’m not going to stop you from taking them,”

“You’re being strangely quiet today, Francis. Are you feeling okay?” Emil pipes up from the corner.

“He’s sulking because he’s just lost the love of his life to a staircase,”

“Don’t be a dickhead, Arthur. I’m fine, Emil. Honestly,”

 

The doors slide open with a delicate pinging sound, and Arthur storms out, digging through his bag for more flyers, and leading the group in the direction of the offices. He can hear the footsteps of several others clambering up the staircase opposite, and his heart begins to calm slightly with the knowledge that at least some of them made it past the lobby. That is, at least, until he finds himself stopped in his tracks no more than twelve feet away from the elevator shaft.

“Hold on- I don’t recognise this,” his eyebrows knit together in a confused stare.

“You did say the twelfth floor, right?” Francis asks. Arthur hums an affirmative.

“Well are you sure that’s correct?”

“Of course I’m sure,”

He hurries around the corner, catching the attention of a smartly-dressed woman carrying a stack of files, who seems oddly less surprised to see them than the receptionist had been.

“Excuse me, miss- is this the twelfth floor?”

“No, sorry, this is number ten,”

His shoulders both droop and tighten simultaneously, as Arthur spins on the balls of his feet, and turns back to stop the group from following him.

“Wrong floor,” he confirms to them, to a chorus of sighs and unintelligible mutters.

“ _God_ , Arthur, I thought you were supposed to be smart,” Gilbert chides.

“Yes, well I’m not the one who pressed the wrong button. The numbers are perfectly clear, unless you failed pre-school. Not that I’d put it past you,”

“I don’t think now is the best time to be fighting,” Matt tries to intervene. His words go ignored.

“ _The lift’s gone,_ ”

Everyone’s head turns to glare at the falling number displayed on the wall in harsh, red light.

“ _Shit._ Staircase,”

 

Arthur all but barrels in to the door separating the staircase from the corridor, almost colliding with the other protestors but paying them no mind as he races up the rest of the stairs, pale skin already flushed red with exhaustion, Francis quick on his heels. Alfred shouts down, his voice echoing between the walls, to let everyone else know to keep going, before following after Arthur and Francis.

Gilbert hangs back to round up the stragglers, bringing his camera up to his eye and capturing shot after shot of everyone, each with the ACT UP logo plastered somewhere on their clothing, scattering flyers as they go. Powerful as they will come out (or so Gilbert hopes), they cannot capture the noise or the atmosphere created by the rage of the people crowding the corridor. He thinks that might just be one of the greatest tragedies of the moment. The other tragedy? The fact that he just missed the opportunity to take a photograph of the newcomer Spaniard who has just skipped past him.

“Hey, Antonio!” he calls, jogging up the steps two at a time to catch up, and placing his left hand on the back of Antonio’s right shoulder blade.

“It’s good to see a newbie getting stuck in to the action,” he smiles, letting his hand trail down the curve of Antonio’s back for a moment, before sliding away and chasing Arthur up the stairs, so as to avoid missing the chance to photograph the ‘moment of ambush’ for their promotional material.

 

Arthur slams open another door, and is immediately confronted by a large, metallic grey sign proclaiming that he is indeed now on the right floor- the words ‘Melton Pharmaceuticals’ displayed sickeningly proudly in a clinical, straight-lined font- without a single soul stood beneath it. Arthur was sure they’d be waiting- he had no doubts about it- for the group of scrappy students with stick-thin limbs and red-ringed eyes file in from the stairwell. He freezes- he’s not entirely sure what to do now, despite playing the situation, and every scenario that could come of it, over and over in his head every night for the past week or so. He knows that if he dares open his mouth, he’ll only embarrass himself, no matter who’s there to see.

Before he has the chance to think, a thick red substance splatters over the stark white wall with a loud smack, dripping over the raised metal sign with a morbid slowness. Thrown by Matthias, if the familiar sound of the Dane’s chuckle is to be believed, and the fact that Gilbert’s hands are too occupied with his camera in that moment- though he, of course, laughs too, as he crouches from position to position, raising his arms at odd angles that seem almost painful, in an attempt to get the perfect shot of the bloodied words. It will make for good promotional material, Arthur must admit, however ‘on the nose’ it may be.

And it seems that the first blood is exactly the catalyst Arthur needs to move his fucking feet, and make his way towards the desks spread across the room just around the wall. He swallows, slicking his throat in preparation, and waltzes over like he owns the place, flanked by Francis and Mathieu on either side, each carrying a heavy stack of posters.

They stay quiet, at first, passing the shocked faces of several workers, who all abandon their typing and turn their heads to watch the procession with a concerned curiosity. Some even rise from their seats, and walk close enough to take a better look, but stay far enough away as to not get dragged in to the perceived firing line. They’re left alone- after all, they’re not the ones who have done anything wrong.

He knows exactly where he’s going now. There’s a smaller office at the end of the carpeted pathway. Four glass walls, each with a frosted panel wrapped around the middle of them. Relatively soundproof, but not blacked out to any potential visitors, uninvited or otherwise. There’s a gathering being held in there now- small, unimportant, with only four members, but they’re the exact four people the group have come to see. Arthur brings his trusted whistle to his lips, and blows a shrill rallying cry.

 

_“Melton Pharm, assassin. You have blood on your hands. Melton Pharm, assassin. You have blood on your hands.”_

 

Matthias takes a soft plastic bottle filled with the wine-coloured substance from Emil, and begins to paint the glass with it. It glistens in the light streaming in through the multiple windows, and casts a light of the same colour on the pompous faces of the CEO and his lackeys. He can’t help but think it accentuates their scandalised expressions, as they shoot up from under the table and toss their chairs away behind them. The red glues the sheets of paper still where they cannot remove them, Francis’ hands slamming against the glass with handfuls of flyers every other moment in an almost fanatical rhythm.

Spirited shouts, piercing whistles, the ever present flash of Gilbert’s camera on and on- there’s no way they can be ignored now.

Arthur is holding the door to the conference office shut. They definitely can’t ignore that, though it doesn’t appear as though they’re making any effort to get out, or to do anything but stare, really. Probably for the best, all things considered. The Englishman turns to shout at a small splinter group of their organisation, hovering near the windows.

“You lot, down that corridor,”

He plays the part of a man in charge well, when Elizabeta is not there to put him back in his place. As of now, Gilbert is too busy with his camera to care about his fickle, so-called positon of authority. Emil looks similarly in his element, stony faced but bright eyed as he passes blood-filled balloons around, and takes the time to throw some himself, careful to avoid catching his or anyone else’s clothing with it. He knows all too well from bitter experience how difficult it is to remove.

And Antonio? The poor thing looks like a lost puppy among the chaos, though he can’t be faulted for a lack of enthusiasm.

 

Francis snatches two of the blood bombs from Emil and pushes past Arthur, wrenching open the glass doors and launching the balloons straight at the table, smearing burgundy over countless sheets of research and science, that the Frenchman doubts really means much to any of them. The sight of the red stain slowly seeping in to the fabric of their shirts is one Francis thinks he will never grow tired of.

“Have you gone _mad?”_ one of them shouts, waving his arms in the air indignantly.

“Mad? _Yes,_ we’ve gone mad. Mad when we’re sick on AZT every four hours, when we vomit every night, while you let us die! This is what a person with AIDS looks like-“

“Listen, we’re well aware of what you’re going through, but this kind of behaviour is absolutely unacceptable,”

“You’re not aware of anything! If you were, you’d have shared your test results with us by now,”

“Things don’t have to be like this, why don’t we just try and _talk?”_ the woman begins to speak, her tone less authoritative than the swine-faced man, as though a more gentle approach will do anything to stop Francis now he’s got everyone- including himself, to a great degree- riled up.

“But we don’t have the time to talk!” his voice borders on a shout, but doesn’t crack or croak once as he continues on.

“We’re dying- can’t you see that?”

 

A deafening, urgent whistle screams down the hallway, and Francis’ voice dies down in an instant. The floor shakes under dozens of footsteps not belonging to their allies, as Elizabeta and Alfred (having finally reached the twelfth floor) begin to shout a warning. Burly men in dirty blue police uniforms tackle both of them to the ground, and they go down without a fight, as ten more jump over their bodies lying on the rough carpet.

Someone else begins to speak.

 

“I’m a doctor, and I understand your situation-“

“Oh, and I’m a runway model. I don’t give a shit if you’re a doctor-“

Francis doesn’t so much as yelp as he, along with every other person with a pink triangle decorating their clothes, has his arms grabbed and wrestled behind his back, before being tossed to the floor like a throwaway doll. Arthur, on the other hand, is much more vocal.

_“This is how they fight AIDS! Melton Pharm’s wasting time!”_

“Lie down, offer no resistance!”

 

* * *

 

 

Antonio spends a little over two hours in a police cell with a fifteen-year old soaked in fake blood, and a tall, blonde Scandinavian who can’t seem to stay still for more than a minute. They don’t speak- or rather, Antonio doesn’t speak. Matthias takes the time every twenty minutes or so to call out through the gaps in the door frame, joining Arthur, Alfred and Gilbert in their chorus of protest. Emil takes the same time to ask the Dane to shut up. And he does, when Arthur does, which is remarkably sooner than Antonio would have presumed.

A woman in an ill-fitting skirt suit takes a quick glance at his identification, briefly questions his nationality and the nature of his visit, then thrusts his visa and passport back in his general direction without ever looking him in the eye. No notes, no questions about the day’s event and proceedings. He counts the darker spots on the grey linoleum until they begin to swim before his very eyes, reads the words he doesn’t understand that have been carved in to the cell walls, and finds his way on to a train back to central Paris with the rest of the gang- or at least, most of it- before he can truly process what’s happened.

 

“Does anyone have some water? The pigs wouldn’t give me any,” Francis whines.

Antonio digs the still unopened bottle from his bag, and tosses it over as they take their seats on the train, parting the crowd around them like Moses with the noise and the sight of them.

“The sight of all that blood was beautiful- and that hideous carpet ruined,” the Frenchman grins.

“And my jacket,” Mathieu fumes, “it was expensive, too,”

There’s hardly a spot on it, but Francis has long been subjected to the boy’s worrying, and he’s begun to grow rather fond of his anxious tendencies.

“It’ll be fine. It adds character,” he reassures with a smooth, confident voice.

“They were so scared it was real blood, it was brilliant,” Alfred butts in, leaning his chin over the metal headrest separating his seat from Francis’, “they wore gloves to touch us,”

“How was it for you? Your first time,” Francis looks over at the small, long haired figure sat opposite him, who Antonio vaguely remembers sitting behind on his evening of induction in to the group. His line of sight doesn’t even flicker towards Antonio.

“It was alright,”

“He was terrified, bless his heart,” Alfred giggles.

“Don’t worry, it freaks everyone out the first time. I’m always a bit scared, it’s only natural. Be glad Elizabeta told you to bring your ID with you though, I remember Arthur having an absolute nightmare of a day the first time we were arrested,”

 

“You know they always wear gloves, right?” Antonio has finally found the courage to speak up. Every pair of eyes glances over at him, curious and cautious- even Francis’.

“What?”

“Cops always wear gloves when they take people in, it’s protocol,”

“Careful, he’s defending the pigs,”

“I’m not,”

“But you could tell that they were scared though, no?” Francis regards him with an odd expression that he can’t place.

 

“Hey, there are more important things to be talking about,” Mattie interrupts.

“Like what?”

“Like what the hell was Gilbert doing with that camera?”

_“I wish I’d known he was that flexible,”_

_“How does he even do that with his legs?”_

 

Antonio stops paying attention to the buzz of animated voices around him, and finds his gaze solely focused on Francis- who, it would appear, has also given up on following the rapidly spiraling conversation in favour of checking his watch, then pulling a rattling box from the pocket of his coat. The Spaniard watches him pop the lid, and tip a small collection of brightly coloured pills in to the palm of his hands. He swallows them all at once, followed by a large swig of water.

He leans his forehead against the window, stares at the passing trees and street signs as though they’re of any interest to him. His jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

Antonio doesn’t stay long enough to see which stop Francis gets off at.


	3. three

_His hands are sweating- they must be. They’re certainly shaking, in his pockets where he’s shoved them to hide the fact of his anxiousness from everyone. He doesn’t dare think about the number of eyes trained on him as he stands stone still before the podium. At least the lights have been turned low, so that they can’ truly see him. He hopes that Emil’s occasional switching of the acetate sheet under the overhead projector, and the pitiful drawings that decorate them, is interesting enough to draw the majority of the attention away from his trembling form._

_“The only drugs available at the moment are AZT and DDI. They’re both nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitors, which essentially means that they target a virus protein, and reverse the transcriptase process,”_

_‘Keep it simple’ Alfred had said to him not two hours before. ‘Not everyone can keep up with all of these fancy names’. Mathieu Williams, Alfred’s proclaimed med student of the year (not that he believes it), can’t even put something into layman’s terms. Maybe he should have asked Berwald to do it instead._

_“As you can see in this picture, the enzyme works after the virus infects a cell. It allows the RNA of the virus, its genetic code, to turn into DNA, which is then able to blend with the host cell’s genome. Once the nucleus of the cell has been infected, the virus can then duplicate, and infect other cells._

_“So now, the new therapy strategies aim to block the infection at other stages of the cycle. Protease inhibitors attack virus duplication once the cell has become infected. They block the formation of a virion, or result in incomplete virions that are then unable to infect other cells. This obviously provides some amount of hope, along with a true alternative to drugs like AZT or DDI which both have their limits and negative effects,”_

_He doesn’t hear what comes next._

 

* * *

 

 

It’s raining once again when Antonio happens across Elizabeta standing outside a supermarket in an unknown-to-him district just on the edge of the centre of Paris, one that he’s not entirely sure of the purpose or reason for him being in it.

Before arriving in the foreign country, he had truly underestimated the sheer amount of rain that would shower over him in the city, in a way that seems as though each cold droplet is laughing at his misfortune in an unmistakably French tone. He’s spent enough hours, tucked away at the back of a lecture hall with the side of his forehead pressed against the window pane, staring out at the sight of the sun teasing him through a thick sheet of clouds- not unlike a woman sliding a bare leg through the gap between two crimson velvet curtains, her skin glistening and her toes pointed, accentuating soft lines.

_(His tutor had told him- sometime between reciting Une Saison en Enfer for the thirteenth time and fourteenth time that semester- that he should put in the effort to make things in his everyday life seem more poetic. In his most humble of opinions, ‘making an effort’ is only making Antonio sound more pathetic. Such is life.)_

Then, he rushes out of the halls with an immeasurable amount of enthusiasm and longing, only to find the streets of the city bathed in the same heavy silver spray once again, as though the sun had taken one look at the people on them and decided that they weren’t worthy of her presence. Maybe they’re not.

This time, however, Antonio has had the foresight to not only wear a light but water-resistant spring jacket, but also to bring an umbrella with him on his stroll. And if it’s any consolation- which it isn’t, not really- the temperature is not offensively cold today, nor is it determined to snatch any semblance of functionality from his poor fingers and toes. In fact, it could even be considered relatively warm. But it’s still raining, and he’s still assaulted by the odd raindrop or three every time the wind decides to switch directions.

And they really must stop meeting like this.

 

Antonio spots Elizabeta, for once, before she can accost him, which is a rare and downright impressive feat when it comes to the woman who he would bet actual, physical money on having eyes in the back of her head.

Her hair hangs in sodden strings around her face, and black is beginning to smudge under her eyes from her make up. Her bare knees knock together, shivering and goose-bumped in the chill of the rain. In each hand, she carries two woven shopping bags containing what must be glass bottles. Antonio can hear them clink together with every adjustment of her grip, shoulders or feet. On her shoulders hangs a thin jacket, which slides down her arms as she stands and leaves her clothes at the mercy of the rain. She soon senses Antonio’s eyes wandering up and down her lone form, and turns her head to face him with such vigour that she ends up whipping herself across the eyelids with her won drenched and heavy hair.

Despite this, her confident smile does not falter for even a fraction of a second, and her eyes remain as bright with defiance as usual, as though she’s challenging the weather to do her worst. Antonio would lie to be back in the safety of his student accommodation, or at the very least, the bus back, before the storm decides to take her up on the offer.

She bounds over, the bags swinging with the momentum of her movement as the sound of glass against glass rings out across the plaza. To his surprise, it draws little attention from the moderately sized crowd. He shifts his arm to hold the umbrella over her head as she rears to a screeching halt beside him with a silent nod of greeting, which he dutifully returns, before glancing down to study the actual contents of the bags. He was hardly expecting to find bottles upon bottles of organic, low-sugar cordial in them, but the amount of various alcohols that Elizabeta appears to have bought is, quite frankly, astonishing.

 

“Are you having a party?” he chuckles, gesturing down at the bags now hanging from her strained forearms. She huffs, in that particular way that they all seem to when they find something to be mildly amusing.

“I wish- not tonight though. Or perhaps tonight, depending on how this afternoon goes. I might have a lonely little one-woman party, steal Francis’ cat to really get a vibe going. But no, we’re having a meeting at Gilbert’s apartment. I say meeting- probably more of a _gathering_. We’re not supposed to talk about ACT UP related business there, but I’m sure we will end up doing anyway, we usually seem to- you know how it is,”

He doesn’t, but he’s starting to learn. Slowly, of course. It’s too much of a significant portion of their life to ever truly forget about it, even for an hour or so- and while it may not exactly be in the same way, it’s beginning to take a hold on his life too.

“Were you not invited? I’m sure Gilbert was talking about asking you to come along- or maybe I just imagined that. But Gil definitely said something about speaking with you the other day, when we did the demonstration at Melton Pharm. You should come along anyway, it’ll be really nice for you to get to know everyone a little better while there are no distractions. Feliks will be there, he started at around the same time as you,”

 

“Is Francis going to be there?” Antonio finishes speaking before he even realises that he’d opened his mouth.

Elizabeta pauses for a second, regarding him with a cautious, almost guarded expression in her eyes, but a mischievous smirk on her lips.

“I’m not sure- I don’t think so, though. I know he was busy this morning, so I guess it depends on whether or not he feels up to going out again. Why do you ask- is there something you wanted to speak to him about? Because I can always pass on a message, if it’s important.”

“No, it’s fine, I was just wondering,” he shrugs, hoping he’s playing it more casually than he is, and that it’s not glaringly obvious that he wants to see the mysterious (for lack of a better word) blonde Frenchman again, in a place where they don’t discuss how all of Antonio’s newfound friends will be dead before he gets his degree.

“Have you been speaking to him recently?” she continues to press him, the smile on her face growing wider and more chiding with every word she says.

“A bit,” he admits- he doesn’t dare say any more than that, fearing the inevitable slip up that will cause him to fall in to Elizabeta’s well-meaning but prying clutches.

He already thinks that she knows far more than he thinks she possibly could. She doesn’t, in actual fact, but she does have her assumptions, and her ideas, and her talent for making people feel oddly uncomfortable yet, at the same time, remarkably content in her presence. And with that, she leaves the topic for another time, noticing the tendons in Antonio’s neck growing tighter with each question.

 

“Well, we should probably be on our way then. This rain is only going to get worse, and Gilbert will be annoyed with us if we’re late,”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose on your plans,” he protests, even though the prospect of finding his way home in the rain, umbrella or no umbrella, daunts him massively.

“Not at all! You’re totally welcome. I bet everyone would love to see you there,”

Antonio doesn’t realise that by ‘everyone’, Elizabeta means Gilbert in particular. But why would he?

 

And so, with little else left to say, and the desire to protest the sudden invite suddenly gone from his mind, Antonio nods with a smile and a quick _‘okay’_ , before Elizabeta storms off in the direction of the nearest bus terminal. If he’s going to intrude on their ‘gathering’, the least he can do is offer to be polite now.

“Would you like me to carry one of those bags for you?” he calls after her.

Over her shoulder, Elizabeta shoots him the coldest look he’s ever seen from anyone, though it’s still laced with a hint of amusement, and it has an almost arrogant tinge to it.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure I’ll manage just fine on my own,” 

 

* * *

 

 

As Elizabeta leads Antonio through numerous long grey uniform corridors and hallways on their ascent up a similar looking staircase, and as the pair pass nondescript pinewood door after door the Spaniard finds that the time it takes affords him the perfect opportunity to imagine exactly it is he’ll come face to face with when they finally arrive at the correct door.

He thinks of a single light fitting hanging over the door frame. There will be no lamp shade on it, only the bulb hanging on a lone white wire. It’ll be turned off leaving the entryway to be lit only by the light peeking under the other doors. There’s no window in the hallway, and it’s completely shut off from every other room by doors that would appear to be the same colour as both the main front door and the floorboards, of the light was any brighter.

Four doors will line the walls- one opposite the front door, two along the wall to his right, and the fourth on the left, so close to the main door that their frames are practically touching. This one is the bathroom, Antonio can tell by the vulgar sign crudely posted on the door.

He and Elizabeta will struggle to fit in to the porch like area side by side, and they won’t be able to help but trample over piles of worn and dirty discarded shoes that litter the floor of the surrounding area. There’s no mat for them to wipe their feet on, and Antonio imagines that there are scuff marks of mud that he can’t see in the dark.

Elizabeta will drag him forward in through the door on the far wall into an open plan kitchen and living room, musty with cigarette smoke and smelling of several day old takeout containers that nobody has bothered to throw away yet. Peeling posters decorate nicotine stained walls, and the rug lies half folded over where someone has been kicking their feet under the edge. There are no fewer than five ashtrays strewn across that room alone, and at least twenty various dishes waiting to be washed up.

It’s very obviously home to a group of students, though exactly how many is difficult to work out. From the way that the doors are spaced throughout the public corridor- in particular, the lack of space between them- Antonio can’t see the dwelling being big enough for more than a single person, if that.

 

“Do you live here too- with Gilbert?” Antonio asks, glancing over at where Elizabeta walks beside him, still carrying both shopping bags in each hand- seemingly, with significantly less effort than it would have taken him, even after the hilly walk from the bus stop to the apartment complex.

“Good _God_ , no. Just Gilbert and Roderich, the poor soul. Though I suppose it suits him more than it ever did me. I lived with them both in halls, during first year, and I couldn’t wait to leave- this is us,”

She doesn’t even put the bags down to open the door, instead using her elbow to push down the handle of the unlocked door, and using the toe of her heavy boot to kick it open.

Instead of the dingy student hovel he was expecting, Antonio finds the exact opposite. The walls are a stunning white, and the floorboards sparkle like they were cleaned and polished only minutes ago. He doesn’t even want to step on them. Each pair of shoes is paired and sat straight on a wooden rack by the door, rather than being tossed everywhere. Elizabeta toes hers off straight on to the bottom shelf, and Antonio quickly follows suit.

The room is filled with light- there are no windows in the entryway itself, but it opens at the end into a wide open room lined with floor to ceiling windows along the walls, looking out over the streets. It would appear that, in the mere minutes they’ve been inside the building, the sun has decided to make a reappearance. Just his luck.

There’s no sign of any dirty dishes, and only one ashtray in the centre of an otherwise immaculately tidy coffee table. Around that table, there sits several faces more familiar to him now than they had been a week ago, all either lounging on the fleece throw covered sofa, or sitting up straight on the colourful plastic chairs that have clearly been dragged over from the breakfast table in the kitchenette.

They’d been talking rather animatedly as the pair entered the flat, but soon hushed to a tense, unsure silence as they walk in to the sitting room.

 

“Ah! Look who finally decided to show her face,” Alfred calls out as Elizabeta walks over to set the bags down on the table.

“We have enough alcohol already, babe,” Gilbert chuckles in disbelief when he hears the sound of the bottles slamming against the imitation oak.

“No such thing as _‘too much alcohol’_ when it comes to you. I’m just stocking up to save you the trip to the shop later,”

“So you’re not just going to drink it all again? _Alchy,_ ” the German smirks.

“Do you want a beer or not?” “You know I could never say no to you, Lizzie,”

Antonio isn’t convince that Elizabeta isn’t about to storm over to where Gilbert is sitting and slap him around the face. Instead, she seems to channel her anger in to pulling two cold bottles from the fridge and slamming them down on the counter, before replacing them with the newly bought drinks.

“Go sit down, get comfortable honey. Do you want something to drink- Beer, wine, coffee? Or I can make you something small to eat if you’re hungry,”

“Stop mothering him,” Alfred laughs. Elizabeta ignores him.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Antonio assures her.

“Anyone else?”

A chorus of hurried ‘no’s’ fills the room, like everyone is scared to ask for the wrong thing in case they set her off. Most of them either have glasses in their hands, or sat on cork coasters beside them already anyway.

Antonio takes one of the last few remaining seats, the one next to Gilbert, thinking that Elizabeta would rather he sit there than she sit there herself in that moment. After handing one of the now opened bottles over to Gilbert, she goes to curl up in the plush armchair with Roderich, half on the arm and half on the seat.

The conversation resumes before anyone says hello to them.

 

“Anyway, back to where we were,” Mathieu shuffles the sparse pile of paper on his lap and readjusts his legs as he readjusts his thoughts after the break in the conversation before continuing with a slight shake in his voice.

“This isn’t something I came up with all on my own, remember we talked about this long before the meeting,”

Matthias bristles somewhat and raises his shoulders closer to his ears.

“We didn’t say that you _did,_ Mattie,”

“You could have at least let us read the report before presenting it,” Roderich steps in, his tone less commanding than Matthias’, yet far more confident than Mathieu’s.

“What else was I supposed to do- let Berwald present it? He’d be far less tactile about it, and you need one of us to deal with all the scientific stuff. I thought you all trusted me,”

Antonio’s not sure he’s ever heard the kid speak so much in one go, never mind the rising faux conviction he’s attempting to speak with.

“All we’re saying is that your talk might have been a bit much- I mean, it was beginning to sound like an advert for the pharmaceutical companies. You should have focused more on the facts about infection and real treatments, rather than deluding people,”

“With all due respect, I don’t think I deluded anyone. I only described the current lines of research, as they are now, using only the facts,”

“Well that’s not how I saw it”

 

The tension in the room is rife- both Matt and Matthias look as though they’re about to rise from their seats and go toe to toe, not that Mathieu would have been capable of doing much. Everyone sits silently, keeping their eyes away from the scene, at the same time too afraid to intervene but also morbidly interested in where the fight will end up- Alfred’s hoping it’s not on the floor, with each other’s hands wrapped around their throats. He’s not in the mood to have to tear them apart today.

A soft, embarrassed but determined blush spreads across Mattie’s cheeks as Matthias’ words dig deep.

“People are going to think that these protease inhibitors, _whatever the fuck they are_ , are better for them than AZT,”

_“Bullshit,”_ Mattie spits, wrinkling the sheets of paper in tight fists.

 

Both of them turn their heads to where Gilbert sits nursing a beer, and seemingly ignoring the brewing argument. Neither of them want to be the first to say anything, to drag someone else in to their spat, but Matthias does anyway.

“ _Oi,_ Gilbert. Aren’t you going to say anything- are you even listening to us?”

“Of course I’m listening,” he sighs, tearing his gaze away from the window to glance between them, like it’s the first time he’s seen either of their faces.

None of them are convinced.

“I’m just not sure that it’s my place to say anything. I’m not the one who deals with all this science shit. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think Mathieu’s talk was nearly as big of an issue as you’re trying to make it,”

 

“ _Fine, whatever,_ ” Matthias huffs, having taken a few seconds to process the fact that Gilbert didn’t immediately take his side.

“Anyway, my doctor- you know, Catherine Delmas? She told me that all this talk of _‘protease inhibitors’_ and whatever else is gnat’s piss,”

“Really?” Gilbert practically giggles, “She used those exact words, _gnat’s piss?_ Somebody make sure that goes in the minutes at the next meeting,”

“Delmas isn’t even part of the organisation, if anything she’s more of a slave to pharmacy than you seem to think I am,”

“All of the doctors talk to each other though. I’m sure that she knows plenty of international researchers, and she seems sure enough on where they all stand on the issue,”

“There’s no such thing as an _‘international researcher’_ -“

 

“ _Listen_ , friends, let’s not argue about this,” Gilbert raises his arms as if to keep the bickering pair apart from each other, despite sitting nowhere near either of them, and the fact that both remained firmly in their seats- somehow.

“If Melton Pharm are waiting for the Berlin conference to say anything, then there must be something interesting about this protease thing. It’s not just ‘gnat’s piss’. And if people gave themselves any false hope from the facts presented in Mattie’s presentation, then that’s too bad,”

An awkward, unsure silence settles over the room, leaving Elizabeta mentally scrambling to break it.

 

“Hey- I’ll take any false hope that’s going at this point in time, honestly. I can’t tolerate AZT and DDI doesn’t actually work on me,”

“Are you still having the same side effects?” Mattie asks, perhaps more grateful for the change of subject than anyone else.

“Some of them, yeah,”

“I had to stop, they were making me throw up all the time,”

“It’s usually the other end, isn’t it?” Gilbert winks, “It always was for me, anyway,”

“ _Gross_ , Gil,”

“Yeah, usually- but they just make me feel nauseous and vomit. Pretty badly too, I was terrified the first time. The doctors thought I had pancreatitis, the pain was so atrocious,” Mathieu shrugs nonchalantly.

“You never told me that,” Alfred jumps in, his eyebrows drawing together and his eyes widening.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, I’m fine now. They switched me on to DDC instead,”

“That won’t be good for the pancreatitis,” Roderich manages to sound concerned even as he continues to look down his nose somewhat at everyone else.

“Either way, I’m better now. But oh, how I just _adored_ DDI,” he smiles.

“Amen to that,” Elizabeta chuckles.

 

Still sat in the corner with a sour mood but a blank expression, Matthias says nothing. Sensing that the atmosphere has cleared enough to speak, Antonio dares to raise his hand ever so slightly above his head.

“Hold on guys, Toni wants to speak,” Gilbert grins.

_Toni-_ that’s new.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I had a question. I read the reports from the medical commission, but none of them mention any kind of vaccine development?”

“Oh, how _disappointing,_ ” the German drawls.

“Excuse me?” Antonio’s voice falters.

“If you want to work on vaccines, go ahead-” Matthias pipes up, “but we all already have the disease, so we’re not really interested in any kind of vaccine,”

“Hey, don’t be rude, it was a good question,” Elizabeta shoots him down like an irate schoolteacher.

“It’s not that we’re not interested, _per se_ \- there just aren’t that many vaccine trials.”

“Hold on, there is one- Canaripox,”

“Of course, I forgot that one,”

Mathieu hands him a thin, bright yellow folder that looks like it has been banished to the bottom of a bag for many moons, judging by the deep creases and rips in it.

“It uses an attenuated canary virus. It’s been in limbo for months, but you can take this anyway,”

“Yellow for the canary?”

“ _Of course_ ,”

“I love it,” Gilbert’s smile shines.

 

“I’m not sure I really know enough about this kind of thing to really research and understand all this,” Antonio sighs.

“It’s only two pages long, I’m sure you’ll probably be able to handle it,” Matthias grumbles.

“You’ll learn as you go, like everyone else did,” Mattie is much more reassuring.

Gilbert laughs loudly.

“Wow, you were both saying how much more help you needed, and now you’re actively trying to scare the poor newbies away- no offence to either of you,” he smirks, looking over at both Antonio and Feliks, who had been at the apartment since the Spaniard arrived but had yet to say anything.

“We gave him the file,” Matthias protests his innocence.

“ _In any case,_ ” Elizabeta steps in to stop Matthias from saying another word. “I’m sure Antonio is already doing better than you- two years ago, you didn’t even know what a cell was, never mind how one works”

 

A cautious laugh bubbles throughout the room- perfectly punctuated by the sound of plastic and metal clattering against wooden floorboards, and the heavy thud of fifty kilograms worth of flesh and bone following the same path down. There’s a moment of silence before the panic.

Elizabeta leaps from the chair, and just about manages to slide her hands under Feliks’ head before it hits the floor, lowering it down slowly to rest as the boy blinks around, confused. His face is almost blank, a sickly paper white colour with condemningly prominent cheekbones. Mathieu follows suit, scanning over him as he struggles to regain his bearings staring at the ceiling.

Four different people ask if he’s okay, kicking themselves mentally for not recognising his uncharacteristic shyness, the way he’d been swaying in his seat, how his eyes rolled backwards only a split second before he leaned just a little too far to the left. Elizabeta pulls a glass of water from next to where Feliks was sat, and waits for Mathieu to prop him back up before holding it to his lips, not trusting his shaking hands to keep it from falling to the ground also.

 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, honestly. I’m sorry,”

“Don’t apologise sweetheart, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay,”

 

Everyone goes quiet as Feliks sips the water, not wanting to look at him out of courtesy but not having much else in the room to focus on. Roderich clears his throat, pulling the attention over to him.

“Feliks tagged along today because he had a couple of questions he wanted to ask- would you like me to summarise?” he asks, glancing over and waiting for the blond’s slight nod.

“Feliks was infected recently, and his bloods have already started to decline rapidly,”

“I only have 220 T4 cells left, but nobody seems to know why,” he croaks.

“It happens, but it’s rare. Do you have your notes with you?” Mathieu crouches down to take the sheets Feliks hold out to him, and studies the crude handwriting on it intently.

“This isn’t a consultation Mattie, you’re not a proper doctor yet. You need to speak with the AIDES organisation about it,” Matthias hums with a concerned frown.

“What exactly did your doctor say?” Matt doesn’t even look over at Matthias, nor does he acknowledge the fact that anyone else had spoken before continuing to question Feliks.

“He said I need to be patient and wait for the AZT to kick in and start taking effect,” he mumbles with an air of suspicion and dismissal.

“If you don’t trust your doctor, you can always change. We have a list of good ones, and there are some that are great for immigrants and foreign students,”

“You think he’s no good? I wondered, but I’ve been with him since the start,”

Gilbert sees it fit to pipe in- “He obviously doesn’t make you feel any better- maybe you should try another one. You can always switch back or change again if it doesn’t work out,”

“ _Alright_ \- _okay,_ ”

 

The atmosphere sours considerably after the incident, and nobody is eager to say much more- even Matthias and Mattie, both still reeling from earlier. And so, Antonio soon finds himself being accompanied out of the door by a sincerely apologetic Gilbert.

“Look, I’m sorry today was a bit of a mess. You must thing we’re all insane,” he smiles, cheeks red and eyes cast down. Antonio’s reluctant to consider that it might be something akin to embarrassment.

“You’re still coming to next week’s meeting though, right? We need to plan for the pride parade, it should be fun. But you better bring some of that Spanish sunshine with you, or else we’re going to have to deal with another disaster,”

Antonio nods, and leaves to catch his bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My keyboard is on its last legs, and I've been really struggling with some of the keys. In particular, the comma key- so if there are any misspellings, grammar or syntax errors, please forgive me.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by thedisappointedidealist12.tumblr.com, who created a collection of beautiful fanart inspired by the movie 120BPM. I had originally intended for this fic to be a simple oneshot, however after sitting down to work out exactly what I wanted to write, and how I wanted to present the characters, I realised that I couldn't do what I wanted to do in a single chapter. I have somewhat reworked the roles of both the characters in the film, and in the original inspiration fanart, in order to suit the story. While the fic will follow the events of the film quite closely, the base plot will be built upon significantly to suit the medium of writing rather than film.


End file.
